


The Question is not Who will Let Me, but Who will Stop Me

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alcoholism, Also there's Lucina/Sera but it doesn't last, Basically Lucina becomes the Inquisitor, Character Development, Crossover, Gen, Genderfluid Lucina, I couldn't figure out Dragon Age Keep so this is my catharsis, Leliana/Warden is mentioned in passing, Literally nothing anybody cares about??, Minor Pentilyet bc I'm Trash, RANDOM NPC ROMANCE TRIBUTES. BECAUSE I AM T R A S H, Trash I Tell You, Why it's generally a bad idea to put twentysomethings in charge, discontinued, just for fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7225165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>okay but what if instead of traveling around the fire emblem world lucina gets sucked into dragon age and becomes the inquisitor</p><p>Lucina takes a long walk off a short cliff and ends up in the Frostback Mountains just in time to attend the Conclave, just in time for Corypheus to rear his ugly head and blow a hole in the sky. Since she has no choice (again), it's time for her to save the fucking world (again) and <em>then</em> figure out how to get home in time to stop Grima. Maker save this child.</p><p>Plays kind of fast and loose with a lot of details of both games. See the rest of the series for details on how 'The End Days' differs from Fire Emblem canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I can't be the first person to have done this. Dragon Age and Fire Emblem are both near and dear to my heart, and I wanted to treat myself, so
> 
> here it is.
> 
> enjoy the trash my friends i'm gonna have fun with it and everyone who says no can eat my entire ass

It had started as a walk. A long walk, but not off a short cliff, despite what treacherous summaries may claim. No, it merely started as a walk, with no cliffs involved.  
  
Lucina's intention, she was certain, was to go to Plegia. She'd never seen it in its prime, though she wanted to, and crossing the Elega mountains was the quickest way to do it. She kept to the northern highlands near the Feroxi border, kicking snow off her well-worn boots every five steps, watching her breath steam in the highland air and wondering how close she was to the border. Surely there'd be a patrol. Even with Ferox's grand Longfort not half a mile north, it was worth a guess that either Ylisse or Plegia would be keeping up on who entered and who left. Even this far north, this cold, on this remote mountain pass.  
  
The fact that no border comes after quite a long walk should've been the first thing that tips her off.  
  
A path starts up before she comes across the border. She doesn't come across any kind of border at all, actually, even as the path turns from dirt to paved stones. She's not sure when she stops recognizing the plants growing at the roadside, but once she's certain she's not in Ylisse anymore, she crouches and picks one. It's a slender stalk of something with unremarkably-patterned leaves. It doesn't look poisonous (then again, it's not like she knows; Yarne isn't with her, and he's the real plant expert, as far as plant experts went), so she takes a leaf and chews on it. Aside from the immediate bitterness, she doesn't notice much else except a vague clearing of her sinuses if she focuses on it. She decides not to make a habit of eating strange plants, once she's determined this is not a plant native to Ylisse.  
  
Well, with that figured out, she spots a strange temple built into a mountain. There are carts and wagons parked outside, stablehands tending to the mounts. Guards in strange armor stand outside the set of doors.  
  
She approaches. The guards stop him.  
  
"Are you with the Templars?" Left questions. "You're awfully late. The Conclave has already started."  
  
"Um," she says.  
  
"Surame?" Right prompts.  
  
"Grace," she manages.  
  
"I don't remember a ser Grace with the Templars, Rissa," Left murmurs.  
  
Right— Rissa— thinks a minute. Then she seems to have an idea. "Didn't Lord Whoosy-whatsit say one of his sellswords might arrive late? Did he give a name to expect, Ledger?"  
  
Ledger seems to frown behind her helmet. "I don't reckon he did."  
  
"Go on in, then, ser Grace," Rissa decides. "Ledger, doors. Best not make a habit of being late for this sort of thing, ser."  
  
"I won't," she promises. "Thank you."  
  
She goes down the stairs to the temple. There seems to be something going on, as most of the discussion she hears is coming from down one hallway. But a sinister energy is coming from another, and against what is likely her better judgement, she goes down the sinister one.  
  
She's sure it's a complicated series of events that happens next. But truth be told, she can't remember— she won't be able to remember until much later. There's flashes of green and explosions, and the next thing she knows she's in a dungeon.  
  
And this, she supposes, is where the story starts.


	2. Welcome to Haven

It's not the worst dungeon, as far as dungeons go. It's dark and cold, sure, but there's torchlight, and a distinct lack of rotting corpses in chains on the walls. Her hands are cuffed in a thick metal brace that keeps them apart— the manacle itself could be a decent weapon if she could muster the strength to lift it.  
  
There are four guards in the room. She's in the center. Light comes through a grate above— obstructed sunlight, maybe. She must be under a building.  
  
Her right hand sparks green. She winces. The guards stand alert.  
  
Two women walk in, one in plate armor and the other in leather and mail. She is immediately hit with the sense that both of them could smash her into a pulp and scrape her off their shoes as casually as they would mud. She sits up a little straighter.  
  
"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," the one in plate growls. She stands to the right, and she has a thick accent Lucina can't quite place. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for _you_."  
  
Silence. She is expected to respond. She works her jaw for a second, her tongue thick and cottony in her mouth, and says, "I'm sorry?"  
  
Right does not answer. She narrows her eyes and grabs her right hand. "Explain _this_." She lets it drop back onto her lap unceremoniously.  
  
"I can't," she manages.  
  
"What do you mean you _can't?_ " Right snarls.  
  
"I don't know what it is, or how it got there," she says. If she sounds desperate, it's because she is.  
  
"You're lying!" Right decides, lunging forwards as if to strike her. Lucina pulls back in anticipation. Left steps in and holds her back.  
  
"We need them, Cassandra," she says. She sounds infinitely calmer than Right, although Lucina does not doubt they're equally terrifying.  
  
Left walks over to her in steps that echo off the dungeon walls. "What's your name?"  
  
She breathes. "Grace," she says.  
  
"Your first name."  
  
"Lucina."  
  
Left glances to Right, raising an eyebrow, as if saying see the cooperation you can get if you're nicer? Then she looks back to Lucina.  
  
"Do you remember what happened?" Left asks. "How this began?"  
  
Lucina thinks back. "I remember… running," he recalls. "And these things— spiders? They were chasing me, and then… oh, there were two guards outside. Rissa and Ledger. I suppose they died, too. And there was a woman."  
  
Cassandra, still on the right, scowls. Doubtlessly she was expecting something a bit more linear.  
  
"A woman?" Left remarks, folding her arms.  
  
"She… reached out to me, but then," Lucina frowns. "I don't remember."  
  
Left folds her arms. Cassandra sighs, and sets a hand on Left's shoulder.  
  
"Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she suggests. "I will take them to the rift."  
  
Leliana nods, and leaves. Cassandra undoes the manacle and leaves Lucina's wrists tied together with a length of rope.  
  
"What did happen?" Lucina asks, brow furrowing.  
  
Cassandra hesitates. "It… will be easier to show you."  
  
She leads Lucina out of the dungeon and into a stone building. Lucina wants to say this is some mistake, she's not supposed to be here, wherever here even is. But she doesn't think Cassandra is apt to answer, so she stays quiet.  
  
Lucina squints in the bright light when Cassandra shoves open a set of big wooden doors. The sickly green glow coming from the gigantic hole in the sky draws her focus first, and her eyes widen. She whistles, impressed. She'd never seen that before.  
  
"We call it the Breach," Cassandra explains. "It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It's not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave."  
  
"An explosion can do that?" Lucina asks.  
  
"This one did." Cassandra's face is grave. "Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world."  
  
As if on cue, the Breach grows. Green lightning crackles, and pain shoots through Lucina's right arm. It's a bit ironic that the arm she can't really use is the one with the mark, but even broken bones still have nerves. Despite herself, Lucina grunts in pain and falls to her knees. Snow soaks through the knees of her pants. It's cold, but she doesn't care as much about that as she does about the burning pain in her arm.  
  
Cassandra crouches in front of her. "Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads," she says. "And it is killing you." Of course it was. "It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time."  
  
Lucina takes a breath. She's getting quite tired of being a chosen one. Can't she just be a regular sellsword and live an unremarkable life? For how much she liked masked hero stories as a child, actually being a Chosen One, whether by birth with her Brand of the Exalt or by sheer accident with this mark thing, isn't nearly as fun. It seems she'll have to solve this problem before she can continue her search for her friends.  
  
"I understand," she says.  
  
"Then…" Cassandra says, eyebrows raising.  
  
"I'll do what I can," Lucina promises. "Whatever it takes."  
  
It may be a trick of the weird lighting, but Lucina thinks Cassandra smiles then. Now that Lucina can see, she notices the thick, dark lining around Cassandra's eyes, and the recent-looking scars under her right eye and crossing her left cheek. She has sharp cheekbones and ears that stick out, just enough to look a bit comical but not overly silly. She looks older, in her early forties, maybe— about as old as Lucina's aunt Lissa would be if she'd lived. It's strange, but Lucina is relieved this battle isn't being fought by teenagers, like hers was.  
  
Cassandra pulls her to her feet and leads her through town. It's a little town, unremarkable in all respects, full of people that glance towards Lucina— some look away nervously, some stare, some glare. Lucina can't say she's used to that kind of reception. A skinny youth with long, pointed ears (like a Manakete, but not quite) looks at Lucina and Cassandra coming down the path like she's been caught somewhere she shouldn't be, and skitters out of the way.  
  
"They have decided your guilt," Cassandra says. "They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead."  
  
A few soldiers open the gate at the edge of town. The big wooden gates creak open, shoving powdery snowdrifts out of the way. Snow is still falling, not heavily, but wet and cold. Cassandra leads her down to a bridge, and then they stop.  
  
She turns around. Lucina sees a knife in her hand— a plain, unadorned thing that nonetheless is the scariest weapon she's ever seen, and has an instant of panicked thought that Cassandra is about to stab her and get it over with. _Oh, gods, it's a Murder Knife._  
  
But instead she cuts the rope on Lucina's hands. "There will be a trial," Cassandra promises. "I can promise no more. Come. It is not far."  
  
Relief. "Where are you taking me?" Lucina asks.  
  
They walk down the bridge. "Your mark must be tested," Cassandra explains. Lucina can't imagine how she knows that, because nobody else has seen fit to tell her of anything at all. "On something smaller than the Breach. There is a rift in the Fade not far from here. That is where we are going."  
  
Lucina looks around. She counts thirty-five dead, nine exhausted or injured, and one person curled in the fetal position and rocking back and fourth. Someone in red and white robes recites what sounds like a prayer or hymn to a group. Someone else in the same prays over a pile of corpses wrapped in canvas and rope. A scribe with a writing-board stands over another pile of wrapped corpses, seemingly writing down the death toll. That must be a nasty job.  
  
Cassandra calls to the soldiers at the gate at the end of the bridge, "Open the gate! We're heading into the valley."  
  
The gate swings open with a _"Right away, Lady Cassandra"_ from the guards. Lucina turns onto the path, taking a moment to absorb the uphill trek leading closer to the Breach. It seems so much bigger, even just a short distance closer.  
  
There's a wagon on fire. Corpses litter the ground, yet to be wrapped and taken to the death scribe. Three soldiers run past, sprinting for their lives, as Lucina and Cassandra walk up the hill. "Maker, it's the end of the world," one shouts. "Save yourself, man! Demons everywhere! Worse than the Blight!"  
  
Lucina doesn't know what that means, but she appreciates the advice. Lucina counts five corpses on the way up the hill.  
  
The mark flares. Lucina stumbles, and falls to her knees again. _Damn it, Grace,_ she curses herself. _You've had worse. Get up._  
  
"The pulses are coming faster now," Cassandra says, helping Lucina back to her feet. She gives Lucina a pat on the shoulder, as if she were trying to be friendly or supportive, but she's clearly unversed in this sort of thing, and it's just awkward. "The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face."  
  
"Ew," Lucina mumbles. Then she frowns in thought. "How _did_ I survive the blast?" She'd survived avalanches and building collapses and fires and blizzards, but being caught near the epicenter of an explosion was new, and she was only human. It just didn't seem possible.  
  
Cassandra frowns. "They said you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious."  
  
"Isn't that impossible?" Lucina asks.  
  
"Yes," Cassandra says, quite bluntly. "And they say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was."   
  
Lucina thinks back to then. "I saw a lot of light," she volunteers. "A… a person made of light."  
  
Cassandra scowls. "That is not possible."  
  
"It happened," Lucina insists. "I know what I saw."  
  
"Do you?" Cassandra questions. Lucina hates to admit it, but she has a point. Her memories weren't particularly reliable at this point, especially because she's starting to forget where she came from. Ylisse, she repeats to herself. And after she solves this problem, she's going to go and find her friends, and save her future from destruction… provided she can get back at all, let alone in time to save the world.   
  
"The temple," Lucina says, changing the topic. "What happened to it?"  
  
Cassandra grunts. "Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you'll see soon—"  
  
She doesn't get a chance to finish. The Breach spits out debris, or something, something that smashes the bridge. Lucina tumbles down the bank and lands in a painful lump on the frozen river. She narrowly dodges the parts of a smashed crate that fall next. Hard hits, she's used to— the demons are new. They seem smarter than Risen, and angrier by far. Not the best combination.  
  
She stands, slowly. "Stay behind me!" Cassandra shouts, drawing her sword and holding a shield in front of her. She charges at some… thing… that the Breach spit out, a creature of twisted shadow and general grossness. Lucina's face contorts in disgust. At least the Risen looked vaguely humanoid. These things don't even have knees.  
  
Another materializes near her. It shrieks, and Lucina steps backwards, slowly, looking around for some kind of weapon. She spots a greatsword lying on the ice— it's heavy iron, probably dull and unwieldy, but a weapon nonetheless. She picks it up, hefting it in her hands. It's no Falchion, but it'll do.  
  
She swings it. With a few wide, dull swings, she's beaten it into submission. It melts into greenish mist.  
  
Lucina breathes, nearly choking on the sulfuric scent of demons. "It's over," she says.  
  
Cassandra whirls on her, a snarl on her features. "Drop your weapon," she demands. _"Now."_  
  
 Lucina drops it and steps backwards, hands up. The sword clangs on the ice, chipping it where the ends hit it. "H-have it your way, then," she says. Lucina may be an army commander in her own right, but she's not about to disobey a short-tempered and dangerous woman with twice her years and four times her experience when her life is on the line. She hasn't saved the world yet, she reminds herself. And she still has to find her friends.  
  
Cassandra sighs. "Wait."  
  
Lucina stares, quizzical.  
  
"I cannot protect you," Cassandra decides, picking up the greatsword and tossing it to Lucina. She catches it easily. "And I cannot expect you to be defenseless."  
  
Lucina does feel a bit more at ease with a way to defend herself. She wonders where Falchion even is— if they'd taken it, or if it'd been left behind when she wandered into this world. Since it's clear now she's in another world, and Falchion probably doesn't belong here, and all. She slides the sword into its sheath, and carries it on her back. The blade is barely six inches shorter than she is.  
  
Cassandra glances back at Lucina. "I should remember you agreed to come willingly."  
  
"Someone has to save the world," Lucina shrugs. "If this mark really is as important as you say, then I suppose it has to be me."  
  
"Is this not the first time you've done this?" Cassandra asks, handing Lucina a set of small health poultices that she tucks in one of her pockets. Cassandra raises an eyebrow, bemused, and Lucina has a moment of debate about how to tell her this— if she even should.  
  
"No," Lucina finally says. "It's not."  
  
"Really now?" Cassandra sounds surprised. "You seem a bit young to be a Blight veteran."  
  
 _What in Naga's name was a Blight?_ But Lucina decides to roll with it. "When I was younger, things… happened. These monsters came from the ground and attacked. I led a small militia, mostly made of my friends and those I could gather. I was seventeen when the worst happened."  
  
Cassandra nods in understanding. "Not unheard of," she remarks. "You must have been fortunate."  
  
"I was," Lucina agrees. "Shall we head to the rift, then?"  
  
Cassandra nods, and leads the way. Time to go save the world— or start saving it, anyway. Again.


	3. To the Forward Camp

At the first rift, Lucina gets her first good look at it. It's green, the same green as the giant hole in the sky, but smaller, and somewhat less ominous. Of course it's still plenty scary, considering what Cassandra said about these rifts being scattered all over the world, but on the grand scale of scariness, this did not rank quite as high.  
  
Oh, and it's also spitting demons. But Lucina supposes that's par for the course.  
  
Cassandra does not hesitate to jump into action, and Lucina is close behind. There are a few others fighting, which Lucina is somewhat glad for. She'd hate to have to defeat an army of demons singlehandedly— _oh wait._  
  
It isn't hard. What's more interesting is after the wave is dead, someone grabs Lucina's arm. He stares at the pulsating mark for a second, then holds it up to the rift. Awed, Lucina watches as energy flows through her arm and crackles like lightning, shutting the rift in a way she probably can't hope to understand.  
  
Lucina pulls her hand away and stares at it. "What did you do?"  
  
The bald man gives her a look— not a smile, but he seems marginally pleased. " _I_ did nothing. The credit is yours."  
  
"Logistics." Lucina replies. She does not have much patience for this sort of thing. "Who are you?"  
  
He ignores this. "Whatever magic opened the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark may be used to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake— and it seems I was correct." More of that pleased not-smile. He reminds Lucina of a self-satisfied canine. She's not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.  
  
"Good to know," someone else says. Lucina turns, and has to turn her head down to look at the one speaking. She blinks— she has never seen anyone so short that wasn't a Manakete, but this man has no pointed ears and he doesn't seem build like a lizard, or indeed, anything meant to be flying. He's too thick, and too close to the ground for that. "Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever."  
  
He smiles, and Cassandra scowls. Lucina's eyebrows furrow. "And who are you?"  
  
"Varric Tethras," he says proudly. "Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong." He winks at Cassandra. Her scowl deepens. At least someone around here has the manners to introduce himself.  
  
"It's good to meet you, Varric," Lucina says. "I'm—"  
  
"You're the kid with the mark," Varric says. "Grace, isn't it?"  
  
Lucina nods. "Nice crossbow."  
  
Varric beams, looking fondly to the crossbow on his back. "Isn't she? I'm sure Bianca will be great company in the valley."  
  
"Absolutely not!" Cassandra interjects. Then she sighs. "Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—"  
  
"What's wrong with him coming along?" Lucina asks. "If we really are going to fight this army of demons, then shouldn't we have more than two people?"  
  
"Smart kid," Varric says appraisingly. He reaches up and pats Lucina's shoulder. "We prisoners of the Chantry have to stick together." Lucina decides she'll ask about that later.  
  
Cassandra makes a disgusted noise.  
  
"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," the bald man says. "I am pleased to see you still live."  
  
"He means, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,'" Varric corrects. That explained why he seemed to know Lucina despite Lucina not knowing him.  
  
"Aren't your feet cold?" Lucina asks. It's the first thing that jumps to mind. Solas seems slightly taken aback— as does everyone else.  
  
"Cassandra," Solas says, looking away from Lucina. "You should know the magic here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage— indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power."  
  
"But—" Lucina protests. Then she sighs, and stops listening. Cassandra and Solas and Varric are talking, and it does not seem like the kind of discussion that necessarily needs her presence. She wanders off.  
  
The path around here looks familiar, Lucina realizes. Alarmingly so— this, she thinks as she backtracks to the path she and Cassandra follows and looks down one of its branches.  
  
She remembers. She stumbled out of the undergrowth— the same that this branch leads into— and saw the carts and wagons of those attending the conclave, and Rissa and Ledger at the doors. Her heart surges with hope, that perhaps she could get back home by going back down this path. She starts down it.  
  
"Where are you going?" Cassandra calls, jogging up behind her. Lucina jumps. "There is nothing that way, that I know of. Just more mountain."  
  
 "I remember," Lucina says, wringing her hands. The mark on one of them thrums almost painfully. She ignores it. "That path, that was the path I took to come here. A-a-and the guards, Rissa and Ledger, they were standing just there, and there were the doors, and around here there were carts and wagons— many of them— that was how I got—" She forces herself to stop and take a breath. "Concievably, I could get home by following that path back where I came from."  
  
Cassandra studies her. Lucina wrings her hands, head tilted up the few degrees required to look Cassandra in the eye. Cassandra is a tall woman, taller than even most men Lucina has met, and taller than Lucina herself. Lucina notices her broad, muscular stature when Cassandra folds her arms and lets out a short sigh. "Go, then. I did not know that path led anywhere now."  
  
Lucina brightens considerably. She sprints down the path, shoves aside the shrubbery—  
  
— And crashes right into a hunk of stone.  
  
She reels, holding her head, and mutters a curse under her breath. "That isn't fair," she protests. "It was a path, I swear, that's where I came from—"  
  
"Rubble from the temple must've fallen on the path," Solas reasons. "Is there no way around?"  
  
Lucina checks, almost frantic. But alas, there's more rock on one side and more temple on the other. She deflates. "There isn't."  
  
Cassandra pats her shoulder in what is probably supposed to be comfort. "We will find you another way home, should you truly desire it, once the Breach is sealed. Until then, you ought to stay with us."  
  
Lucina nods, though the gesture is hollow, as she follows Cassandra away from the other path and back on track. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."  
  
The trip to the Breach is as uneventful as it could get— which is to say, they fight a few demons and collect a bit of left-behind junk. Lucina finds the most ridiculous hat, a big broad-brimmed thing with a badge and a wide sash and one side buttoned up. It is, in fact, held on by a leather… thing… that fits around the wearer's ear and covers the hair entirely. It's absolutely absurd and, were it brightly-colored or patterned, she'd love it immensely. Lucina believes things should look interesting, or at the very least, should be blue.  
  
She puts it on. But her reflection in the ice is just too dull, so she takes it off and stores it.  
  
"So, kid," Varric says to her, somewhere between who-knows and fuck-knows. "Where are you from, anyway? I'd guess the Free Marches, from the accent. Further east, though, maybe Ostwick?"  
  
Lucina wants to ask if he's heard of Ylisse. But the chances are, he hasn't. "Yes," she says, because what else can she do but just roll with it. "And you?"  
  
"Kirkwall," Varric replies. "I hear Ostwick's nice this time of year. Nothing like giant walls to make people feel right at home."  
  
"I didn't stay there long," Lucina protests. What is she doing? What even is Ostwick? She hopes it's not too dissimilar from Ylisstol. "The ris—darkspawn made things a bit difficult to stay in one place for too long with my soldiers." She tells herself to find the nearest library and get her story straight after this Breach business is over with. Given that she was now somewhere very, very far from Ylisse, the best course of action seemed to be finding out everything she possibly could so she could blend in the best she could. But then, she was an awful liar.  
  
"Gotta start army generals young," Varric mumbles. It sounds disapproving, though not towards Lucina. "You're what, nineteen?"  
  
"Twenty-one!" Lucina protests. It was her birthday not too long ago, after all.  
  
 "Same thing," Varric dismisses. "Too young."  
  
_I've said that a few times myself,_ she thinks. "I think I'm capable," she says. "I survived lady Cassandra's interrogation, didn't I?"  
  
Varric chuckles, and Cassandra makes an irritated noise. "Speaking of," he says. " _Are_ you innocent?"  
  
"I don't remember what happened," Lucina replies, and she's telling the truth.  
  
"That'll get you every time," Varric tuts. "Should've spun a story."  
  
Cassandra clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "That's what you would have done."  
  
"It's more believable," Varric insists, as they come upon another group of demons. "And less prone to result in premature executions."  
  
Lucina spends the next minute focusing more on unraveling Varric's meaning than she does on dispatching the demons— nonetheless, they get taken care of with little to-do about it. It's not so different from fighting wave after wave of Risen. At least these stop if one cuts them off at the source.  
  
The forward camp is less of a real camp than it is a camp set up on a bridge— like it was a last-minute decision to need a camp here, and the bridge was previously used as just a stop on a trade route, which nobody bothered to convert in the hurry after the Breach opened. Lucina has slept in her fair share of places like this, and determined that, when possible, she prefers to sleep in much warmer and softer places, preferrably with roofs. She counts about twenty corpses, fifteen soldiers, two wagons, and one Chantry cleric aside from the one at the desk with Leliana. They appear to be arguing, and something about the tone of the cleric's voice makes Lucina immediately dislike him.  
  
"We _must_ prepare the soldiers!" Leliana is insisting, and there's a weariness in her voice that makes Lucina guess she's been saying that for at least an hour and, although she's very tired of it, isn't about to quit.  
  
"We will do no such thing," the cleric replies.  
  
"Ser Grace must get to the Temple," Leliana continues. "It's the only way!"  
  
The cleric sighs, and glares, and Lucina has the impression that that isn't wise. "You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility!"  
  
Leliana gives him a look of disbelief, offense, and shock that quickly morphs into an icy, challenging glare. " _I_ have caused trouble?" she repeats, folding her arms.  
  
"You, Cassandra, the Most Holy," the cleric continues. Lucina supposes if he's already screwed up that royally, he may as well stand in his truth. "Haven't you all done enough?"  
  
"You are not in command here!" Leliana says hotly.  
  
The cleric gives a short, tired sigh. "Enough! I will not have it!"  
  
Lucina doesn't particularly want to approach. But Cassandra has a hand on her shoulder and Cassandra is not the type she wants to rebel against too much. Lucina may not have had favorable experiences with authority figures in the past, but she hasn't recieved so many bad knocks on the head to be _completely_ stupid.  
  
"Ah, here they come," the cleric says icily. Lucina visibly stiffens.  
  
Leliana, for one, looks relieved. "You made it!" she says. "Chancellor Roderick, this is—"  
  
The cleric glares straight at Lucina. "I know who she is," he glowers. "And as Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!"  
  
"What?" Lucina stutters. She has not often felt particularly juvenille before, considering the various extenuating circumstances of her upbringing, but she feels more like a child now, at twenty-one years old, than she did when she was twelve.  
  
Cassandra glares. "'Order me?'" she repeats. "You are a glorified _clerk_. A bureaucrat!" Lucina has never heard the word 'clerk' spat so forcefully, as the most caustic of insults. She supposes there's a first time for everything.  
  
"And _you_ are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry," Roderick shoots back.  
  
"We serve the most holy, Chancellor," Leliana interrupts. "As you well know."  
  
"Justinia is dead!" Roderick explodes. Then he straightens, and sniffs. "We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter."  
  
"Um—" Lucina interjects. She sucks in a breath. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here!"  
  
"You shouldn't even _be_ here!" Roderick insists, wagging a finger in her direction. Lucina leans back and nearly bumps into Cassandra, just so she won't have to see his salt-and-pepper stubble in such close proximity.  
  
Then Roderick turns to Cassandra. "Call a retreat, Seeker," he insists. "Our position here is hopeless."  
  
"We can stop this before it's too late," Cassandra says, her hand still on Lucina's shoulder. "I know we can."  
  
"How?" Roderick asks, shaking his head. "You won't survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers."  
  
 "We must get to the temple!" Cassandra insists. "We charge. It's the quickest route."  
  
"But not the safest," Leliana cuts in, a tactical gleam in her eyes. They're blue, Lucina notices. "Here. Our forces can charge as a distraction while you go through the mountains." She outlines the path on the map before her, on the desk. It's pinned into place with knives, and Lucina wonders why people do that instead of weighing it down with rocks or something. It took somebody ages to make that map, and now it's ruined.  
  
"We lost contact with an entire squad on that path," Cassandra retorts, evidently unconcerned with any map-ruining. "It is too risky."  
  
"Listen to me," Roderick says. "Abandon this now, before more lives are lost."  
  
Cassandra is about to retort, likely with a blunt witticism about Roderick's lack of authority, but the Breach expands, as does Lucina's mark, with a magical crackle and greenish unpleasantry that envelops Lucina's forearm. It hurts, but not enough for it to be painful at this point. Lucina stares at her hand. The mark itself is indistinct and too bright to look at for long.  
  
"How do you think we should proceed?" she asks, looking straight at Lucina.  
  
Lucina blinks. "Um— you're asking for my opinion? Aren't I a prisoner?"  
  
"We cannot seem to come to a decision on our own," Cassandra answers, not without a degree of snark that makes Roderick glower. "And it is, in the end, you who will be most greatly affected."  
  
Lucina thinks for a minute. "I say we charge," she reasons. "I'd prefer to get this over as soon as possible so I can go home— and the fact that I may not survive long enough for your trial, or anything like that, means that whatever happens, happens now."  
  
"Nice speech, kiddo," Varric mumbles, where Roderick and Cassandra and Leliana can't hear.  
  
"Leliana," Cassandra says. "Bring everyone left in the valley. _Everyone_."  
  
She marches the group through the gates. Roderick glances at them as they leave.  
  
"On your head be the consequences, Seeker," he mutters. Cassandra glowers at nothing, but doesn't respond.


	4. To Seal a Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alcoholism and pstd and poor choices, oh my!

_I hate the cold,_ Lucina decides. Her nose is red and her hands are freezing because apparently prisoners don't need gloves, and from the knees down her legs are numb and soaked in melted snow. Cassandra seems fine— either she's from somewhere similar in climate to the northernmost reaches of Ferox, or she's far tougher than Lucina will ever be.  
  
Of course, Lucina also hates the heat. And humidity. And really any weather except a light, balmy breeze, especially if she has to sleep outside in it. She's quite used to sleeping outside, and she'd run herself into the ground without complaint, but that doesn't mean she isn't whining like the little princess of last lifetime in her head.  
  
The party passes various piles of burning crap on the way. Lucina has to stop beside a soldier just staring at a burning wagon, wondering if he's alright.  
  
"Saw a demon made of lava," he says, dumbfounded. "Ain't never seen anything like its like."  
  
"You sound impressed," Lucina remarks.  
  
"It was impressive," the soldier reasons. "Imagine the coatracks ye could make on that. If ye could get it to stand still an' not kill ye, I mean."  
  
"I'd never thought of that," Lucina says. "That's a smart idea. Tame the demons for utility."  
  
The soldier preens. "Me brother said I's was loony," he says. "Good t'know someone thinks I's gots a point."  
  
"If you figure it out, let me know," Lucina says. "I'd love to see it. By the way, are you alright?"  
  
"I'll get to it," the soldier agrees. "I'm okay. Dunno what I'm to do now. Me stuff was in there."  
  
"That's awful," Lucina tells him. "I'm sorry about your stuff. But if you're up for it, we have demons to fight at the temple. Cassandra and I could use all the help we could get."  
  
"She's right scary, Seeker Pentaghast is," the soldier remarks. "But if you're there, I s'pose I's wouldn't be so scared. Thanks, mate."  
  
"Not a problem," Lucina gives him a little grin. "I'd better go. Good luck with the demon-taming."  
  
"Thanks," the soldier says. Lucina jogs to catch up with Cassandra and the others, and falls back into step with Cassandra at the front.  
  
Cassandra looks at her quizzically. "A friend of yours?"  
  
"No," Lucina replies. "He looked like he needed somebody to talk to."  
  
Cassandra's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but she says nothing. They keep moving.  
  
The Breach spits out a meteor. It hits a soldier up the hill and sends him sailing over Lucina's head like he was a ball someone had thrown. He crashes into the burning wagon, and the soldier Lucina had been talking to steps back in alarm. Lucina hears him ask "You alright there, mate?" but doesn't stick around to check for a response.  
  
"Be wary," Solas calls, staff in hand. "Another Fade rift."  
  
Lucina sees it before she sees the demons— perhaps not smart, but she dodges being disembowled and bops one of the creatures on the head with her greatsword. Swinging in a wide arc and hoping to hit something is, perhaps, a less-than-elegant way of dealing with demons, but this sword is longer and heavier and far, far duller than Falchion, so she has to make do.  
  
She holds her hand out for the Fade rift to close it. It feels like pulling a rope free of where it's trapped between boulders, she realizes, only her spirit is doing the pulling instead of her muscles. And when she closes it, it's the final yank that gets the rope free.  
  
"Sealed, as before," Solas says, once she closes it. His ears twitch upwards, and he gives her more of that pleased not-a-smile— he reminds her, sort of, of some kind of predatory canine expressing satisfaction at something that has gone his way. "You are becoming quite proficient at this."  
  
"Thank you, I think," Lucina says. She's still not sure how to act around Solas. Varric, at least, is far warmer, and she admires Cassandra enough to try her best not to mess up. But Solas is a mystery.  
  
"Let's hope it works on the big one," Varric says, nodding to where the rift once was.  
  
"Lady Cassandra," someone new says. Lucina turns to see a square-shaped blond man in a furry cloak who reminds her so much of her father at first glance it makes her chest hurt. "You managed to close the rift? Well done."  
  
Cassandra almost beams. "Do not congratulate me, Commander Cullen," she says, nodding to Lucina. "This was the prisoner's doing."  
  
Cullen scrutinizes Lucina, as if he's trying to see without reading glasses. Lucina straightens her back a bit, despite the fact that it makes her taller than him. "Is it?" he says. He nods. "I hope they're right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here."  
  
"I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best, ser," Lucina says.  
  
"That's all we ask," Cullen says. His voice is tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. This is not a man who has been sleeping well. "The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."  
  
"Give us time, Commander," Cassandra says. "We'd best move quickly."  
  
"Maker watch over you," Cullen nods. "For all our sakes." Lucina assumes the last part is supposed to be a mumble.  
  
He leaves. Cassandra turns back to Lucina. She gives her a hard stare for a second, before speaking again. "The ruins are just over there," she says, gesturing with her chin. "We are very close."  
  
They move again. Lucina jumps off a ledge and her boots land with a crunch on slush and charred bone. The stone and brick around the area has been twisted and burned by magic— as if there was something that had the power to warp these things as one would clay, turning the square-shaped temple into twisted spires like something out of a book.  
  
"The Temple of Sacred Ashes," Solas says.  
  
 "What's left of it," Varric mutters.  
  
Cassandra gestures to an indistinct spot near something that may have once been an alcove with her chin. "That is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you," she says. Lucina tries not to look too hard at the charred corpses in armor near the area, and fails. "They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was."  
  
"Creepy," Lucina mumbles, trying to step over a corpse and stepping straight onto another one. Her foot goes through a skull with a sickening crunch. A shiver runs up her spine. She is very relieved when she gets to a clearer area, with fewer corpses scattered around.  
  
Now that she's facing it, she can appreciate just how large the Breach really is. It looks like a Fade rift at eye level, at first, until she follows the train of green energy up into the sky to the gigantic hole in the clouds. The monster rift looks fifteen feet across, easy, and there's no telling with the hole it caused. Lucina feels ill.  
  
"The Breach is a long way up," Varric remarks. "Shit."  
  
Lucina swallows thickly. She could really use a drink right about now.  
  
"You made it!" A familiar voice calls. Leliana, a quiver of arrows and a bow on her back, jogs up with her soldiers. "Thank the Maker."  
  
"Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple," Cassandra instructs, voice like an army commander. Lucina finds herself wanting to straighten her back and salute, just out of instinct.  
  
Leliana nods. She points her people to various places around the temple. Most of them have bows, Lucina notices. That'll be useful, she thinks. Just in case the Breach spits out more demons.  
  
Lucina is picturing a battle royale between Cassandra's soldiers and the demons. _Never-ending waves of demons and limited soldiers. It's all anyone can do to stay alive. Hiding behind a piece of jagged ground with shaking hands covered in blood, trying to breathe in the air that stinks with guts and gore. The hot air makes her eyes water. She cannot hide long, or the Risen will catch her. Her voice hoarse from yelling commands. The fear never goes away. Shaking, shivering, shouting—_  
  
"Ser Grace," Cassandra calls, giving her shoulder a wiggle. Lucina blinks, and wishes her hands would stop shaking. Everything feels too familiar.  
  
Cassandra looks concerned. "Are you ready?" she asks.  
  
Lucina swallows. Her tongue feels hot and heavy in her mouth. "I need something to drink," she manages.  
  
"Water?" Cassandra offers.  
  
Lucina shakes her head. "Stronger. Like Hell I'm facing that thing and whatever it spits out sober."  
  
Varric pats her back and offers a bottle of something. "I've got something for those pre-battle jitters, Grace. Drink up. I'll let you pay me back at Haven's tavern, once we survive this."  
  
Lucina nods and takes a swig. She nearly chokes on the fumes of vinegar and peppermint, but she's thankful for the burn in her nostrils as she takes a long, deep drink. She breathes, stares down the Breach again, and takes another swig. She hands the half-empty bottle back to Varric, and looks back to Cassandra. "I'll try," she says, straightening her shoulders and feeling much more fortified. "But I don't know if I can reach that, much less close it."  
  
"You will find a way," Cassandra promises.  
  
Solas hums, looking at the Breach. "This rift was the first, and it is the key," he says. "Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach."  
  
"Then let's find a way down, and be careful," Cassandra decides. "Lead the way."  
  
Lucina starts her walk down the crumbling path, her feet crunching on loose stone. Perhaps this was once a corridor, she reasons. Or stairs— there are stairs, she notes. As they move, Lucina feels the air get heavier. A thick voice speaks, reverberating in her skull: _"Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice."_  
  
Cassandra glares at the air, as if looking around for whatever is speaking. "What are we hearing?"  
  
"As a guess," Solas says cooly, "The person that created the Breach."  
  
They pass two archers in position, facing the breach, and growths of a strange red stone, crackling with energy. It's strangely mesmerizing, and it seems to sing. Lucina reaches for one, but Varric slaps her hand away, looking deadly serious.  
  
"Better not," he says. He looks at Cassandra, eyebrows furrowed. "This stuff is Red Lyrium, Seeker."  
  
"I see it, Varric," Cassandra replies.  
  
"But what's it doing here?" Varric asks, unusually tense.  
  
"Magic could have grown on Lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it," Solas suggests.  
  
"It's evil," Varric says, pulling Lucina gently away from the growths. "Whatever you do, don't touch it."  
  
"Why, what does it do?" Lucina asks.  
  
"You really want to know?" Varric raises an eyebrow. "We'll talk later."  
  
Another reverberating echo. Lucina waves the thick, smoky air away from her face. _"Keep the sacrifice still."_  
  
And then, another voice. _"Someone, help me!"_  
  
Cassandra balks. "That is Divine Justinia's voice!"  
  
Lucina jumps off another ledge, into a crater surrounding the epicenter of the magical blast. The Breach looks a lot scarier up close, but then, Lucina doesn't feel that afraid. It's just a big magical hole in the sky. The fact that Varric's drink is kicking in helps.  
  
The mark on Lucina's hand flares up, and Lucina sways on her feet as she watches it. More echoes bounce off the walls around them, seemingly coming from the Breach itself. _"Someone, help me!"_ and _"What's going on here?"_  
  
Cassandra stares. "That was your voice," she says in disbelief. "Most Holy called out to you! But…"  
  
"I don't remember that," Lucina frowns. She didn't sound drunk in the memory, or… whatever that was.  
  
Maybe it's her, but the images flash in the air. The floating woman. Grey somethings. A figure with glowing red eyes. The cry for help. A hand on her sword. Kill her. Regretting this decision immensely. Then, nothing.  
  
They're gone. Cassandra stares at her, eyebrows knit. "You _were_ there!" she says. "And the Divine, is she… What are we seeing? Was this vision true?"  
  
"Please don't shout at me," Lucina says. "I don't remember, and I'm about to close a reality-ripping hole in the sky and probably die in the process."  
  
 "Echoes of what happened here," Solas notes, completely ignoring Lucina. "The Fade bleeds into this place."  
  
He appraises the Breach, impassive. Easy for him to do, when he's not the Chosen One who is supposed to close it with his willpower, the magical mark on his half-dead hand, and half a bottle of whiskey in his gut.  
  
"This rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albiet temporarily," he says. "I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side."  
  
"That means demons," Cassandra calls to those assembled. "Stand ready!"  
  
Lucina is not ready. She considers asking Varric for the rest of that whiskey, but decides that any more will make her too useless to fight the demons that come.  
  
The fight with the demon— a Pride demon, she learns later— is not a long one. She ducks, she rolls, she swings around her dull sword in a poor substitute for Falchion. In battle, she doesn't have a chance to remember the past. Perhaps that is for the best.  
  
When the demon is dead, she breathes. She turns to Varric, and says, "I could use the rest of that whiskey." It is remarkably coherent, for the fact that her knees buckle half a second later.  
  
All in all, a productive afternoon.


	5. Apple Brandy, Pear Cider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lucina's therapy bill:
> 
> -substance abuse  
> -anxiety  
> -pstd  
> -hero complex  
> -no fashion sense  
> -can't take a joke
> 
> why, she fits right in here!

On the bright side, she slept through the hangover. On the not-so-bright side, the headache was even worse.  
  
It wasn't _fair_. She hadn't even gotten that drunk. It was only half a bottle, and dammit, she'd been drinking for four years— her tolerance should be better than that by now. She supposed Varric's rotgut packed more of a serious punch than whatever she could scavenge from Ylisse.  
  
Despite her best interests, she sits up. She fidgets idly with one of the buttons on her shirt, which look more like pajamas than any pajamas she'd ever owned and is made for someone a few inches taller and a few feet wider than she was. Clumsily, she pushes up one of the stiff sleeves, and then watches it scootch back down over her bad hand.  
  
The door opens, and Lucina is too busy watching her fingers move to pay attention to it. There is still a green mark on her bad hand, the one with broken and mis-healed joints, fingers sticking out at awkward angles that hurt once, but don't anymore. The last joints on her two forefingers have fused together and will no longer move as separate fingers— if she wants to gesture rudely, clearly she needs to use her other hand.  
  
A thump, and a clatter. Lucina jumps, and turns. The skinny youngster with the pointed ears is there again, stepping backwards nervously.  
  
"I didn't know you were awake, I swear," she stammers.  
  
"Don't worry about it," Lucina promises. "What's your name? And… ah, where am I?"  
  
She drops to her knees, forehead on the floor. "I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing," she says. "I-I am but a humble servant. My name is Wen, short for Wednesday, my lady. Y-you are back in Haven."  
  
Lucina couldn't say she was used to that. As a princess, people took a knee when speaking to her, sure, but that'd stopped before she could get old enough to wonder why (the world ending and all) and only rarely all the way down like that. "Then we're safe?" she says. "You don't have to do that, Wen."  
  
Wen stands, her knobby knees trembling slightly. "That's what they say, anyway," she says. "The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. I-it's all anyone has talked about for the past three days!"  
  
Lucina breathes. "Wow."  
  
"I-I'm certain Seeker Pentaghast will want to know you've waken," Wen continues. "She said, at once."  
  
"Where is she?" Lucina asks, standing. She nearly stumbles, and catches herself on the wall.  
  
"In the Chantry, with the lord chancellor," Wen says, backing out of the room. "At once, she said." And then she skitters away, her large, pointed ears twitching, leaving Lucina to stand in the room and watch her go.  
  
There's another one of those roots in the box Wen had dropped, along with a note: _Elfroot for pain-reducing salve. You can just chew on it it does the same Maker-damned thing wh_ — it ends after that. It's wise advice, either way, so Lucina chews on one of the leaves and puts the rest of it in her pocket. She dresses, cards her fingers through her short, choppy hair, and looks around for a looking-glass. The elfroot helps the headache, just a bit.  
  
There's one hanging on the back of the door. She looks into it, intent on seeing just how much like yesterday's hangover she looks, and immediately steps back in alarm.  
  
She furrows her brows, eyes wide. Bright blue eyes— one, she's used to, but the other? It's perfectly ordinary, and matches the first exactly. And that is the problem.  
  
Okay, no Brand. Oddity one. There are dark bruises under both her sunken eyes, and the scarring across her dark skin is as prominent as ever, but that's to be expected. Her lips are dry and cracked. Her tongue is thick and heavy and tastes awful. Her dark hair dangles in her eyes—  
  
Is it dark because she needs to wash it, or dark because its color has changed? Lucina frowns, and leans closer. She inspects her hair, as messy and choppy as it ever was after she took a knife to it, and determines that while it could use a wash, it's also no longer her signature shade of cobalt. She's not certain if she can call what it is now black or brown, given the lighting, but it certainly looks more brown than black. She resolves to wash it and look in more neutral lighting, and then decide. Maybe a survey is in order.  
  
That's very strange. Oddity two. Coming to in a strange cell in shabby armor with a pulsating green thing on one's hand is one thing. Her Brand being gone and the spontaneous dye job just seems excessive. It seemed like the moment she went from Ylisse to wherever she is now, whatever force divining this decided she wouldn't need her Brand or natural hair color. Though perhaps it was for the best.  
  
She finds a stray piece of parchment labled _Patient Observations: Day One._ It's in a doctor's penmanship, which means Lucina can vaguely make out something about the "mark" thrumming with unknown magic, patient muttering, and a signature: _apothecary Adan_. The rest looks like scribbling. Lucina pockets the note, and then leaves the cabin.  
  
It seems the entire town has come out to see her. They line the dirt roads, perhaps a hundred and fifty people, standing on their toes and crowding around each other for a glimpse. Lucina feels dread creeping up on her, like back in the day when she used to have to address the citizens as the princess— like she was seventeen years old and Lissa had just fallen and she had to be the one to announce it. Walking down the street should _not_ feel like that. For a moment she considers hiding until Cassandra dragged her out, but decides she didn't want to risk it, and takes the first step forwards.  
  
She tries to ignore the whispering and hold her head high, like Lissa had taught her, but it'd been a long time since she'd needed to, so she finds her shoulders rising and her head lowering despite herself.  
  
"I know her!" a familiar voice says, to someone in the crowd. "That's me friend. She said I's was clever, she did! Still workin' on convincin' Harrit of the same, though…"  
  
"I told you someone else would get it, Alf…" someone else replies— it sounds like Wen, but Lucina has left that section of the crowd behind by now. She scurries up a set of stone stairs, set between two huge war-dog statues, and forces herself not to break into a sprint when she sees more people gathered along the roads. Priests, she thinks, and some soldiers, and some townspeople. Some children, scattered among the front. Not many, though.  
  
She pushes through the huge doors of the big, stone building— the Chantry, Lucina assumes, by the amount of priests gathered outside of it. She shoulders her way inside, then lets them creak shut behind her. She shivers in the unforgiving-feeling air of the building, made worse by how dim it is. She's sure it's plenty welcoming, to the right people. Churches tend to be like that.  
  
She can hear arguing through the door at the end of the entry hall. It's Cassandra's thick accented voice arguing with Chancellor Roderick, passionately discussing something or other.  
  
"Have you gone completely mad?" Roderick argues. "She should have been taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by… whoever becomes Divine!"  
  
"I do not believe she is guilty," Cassandra says firmly. Lucina thinks twice about approaching the door, and meanders over to one of the alcoves on the left. She reads something from an opened book about a thing called the Fade— the thing the Breach made a hole into. The realm of demons and dreamers. Lucina hopes she doesn't have to cut off the demon hordes from the source there, and has an immediate cold feeling up her spine that she'll have to do exactly that someday.  
  
Another piece of parchment sitting on a chair has the lyrics for a hymn printed upon it, titled A Chant for the Departed.  
  
" _The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next_ ," Lucina murmurs. " _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light_." She furrows her eyebrow, not certain of what all that means, and sets the scroll down.  
  
"… To serve the Chantry," Roderick is saying.  
  
"My duty," Cassandra spits, "Is to serve the principles on which the Chantry is founded. As is yours."  
  
Roderick sighs, as if this has been going in circles for hours and Cassandra has still not relented. Lucina opens the door.  
  
"Chain her!" Roderick demands of the Templar guards stationed in the room. "I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial."  
  
"Disregard that, and leave us," Cassandra overrides his order. The guards salute with a fist to their chests and leave.  
  
 Roderick glares. "You walk a dangerous line, Seeker," he says.  
  
"The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat," Cassandra replies. "I will not ignore it."  
  
"I did what I could," Lucina brings up. "Can we not just try again? Now that I know what we're up against, it could work out better."  
  
"Do you intend to go about your life with such an attitude?" Roderick wonders. "If you lose a finger trying to catch a blade, do you tell yourself you will try again and perhaps only lose half of one?"  
  
"At least one of us sees the potential for hope here," Cassandra replies, giving him a stony glare. "Have a care, Chancellor."  
  
Leliana melts from the shadows. "Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave," she says, her armored boots impossibly soft on the stone floors. "Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others— or have allies that yet live." She looks directly at Roderick at that.  
  
Roderick sputters. " _I_ am a suspect?"  
  
"You, and many others," Leliana says coldly.  
  
"But _not_ the prisoner!" Roderick sneers. Lucina steps back, just a bit. She is not intimidated by demons or the undead, but politics have always given her the heebie-jeebies. Too much deception, too many people saying what they don't mean. It makes her skin crawl.  
  
"I heard the voices in the Temple," Cassandra insists. "The Divine called to her for help."  
  
"So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand—" Roderick gestures wildly to Lucina— "All a coincidence?"  
  
"Providence," Cassandra says. "The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour."  
  
"So… you believe I was sent by fate?" Lucina manages. "That this was ordained by the g— by the Maker?"  
  
"Fate could play a role," Cassandra muses. "It could simply be the Maker's will."  
  
Leliana looks at Lucina evenly, face unreadable. "The Breach remains," she says. "And your mark is our only hope of closing it."  
  
"This is not for you to decide!" Roderick snaps.  
  
Cassandra turns. A minute later, she drops a heavy tome on the table with a THUD that rattles the boards.  
  
"You know what this is, Chancellor," she says, pointing to the book. There's an eye in a circle on the cover, surrounded by flames. Some light reading, Lucina muses, or some sort of very wordy doctrine? "A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act." Apparently not.  
  
"As of this moment," Cassandra says, and somehow the atmosphere in the area changes enough for Lucina to straighten her back and pay better attention, "I declare the Inquisition reborn."  
  
It is then Cassandra advances, backing Roderick towards the wall. "We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order," she says, and then pokes him in the chest for emphasis, " _With_ or _without_ your approval."  
  
Roderick opens his mouth, then closes it again. He turns and leaves. Cassandra visibly relaxes, and turns to Leliana, then Lucina.  
  
"This is the Divine's directive," Leliana says. "Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand with us against the chaos."  
  
"But, I—" Lucina clears her throat. "Can we do that?"  
  
Leliana shakes her head. "We aren't ready," she says. "We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support."  
  
"But we have no choice," Cassandra continues, looking at Lucina levelly. "We must act now. With you at our side."  
  
Lucina has to consciously remember to close her jaw once it drops open. "Me?" she tries to say, and it comes out as a squeak. "I-I mean. If you're truly trying to help people, save lives, restore order…"  
  
"That is the plan," Leliana nods.  
  
"Help us fix this," Cassandra offers, holding out a hand. "Before it's too late."  
  
Lucina stares at it for a second. Then she breathes, and shakes it firmly. It's too late to back down now.  
  
But before actively dealing with this bullshit, she needs a drink.  
  
———  
  
Luckily for her, the townspeople have dispersed. She meets Varric standing near a campfire in the center of town, flipping through a book.  
  
 "I owe you a drink," she says, by way of a greeting. "Since I drank half your bottle the other day."  
  
"Aw, I wasn't serious," Varric chuckles. "But if you insist…"  
  
Varric leads her to the tavern, a little building with a little hand-painted sign depicting a small pig-thing engulfed in fire. The script underneath the sign reads _The Burning Nug._ Inside is cramped but cozy, with a minstrel tuning her lute near the roaring fireplace and the redheaded bartender wiping out mugs with a rag. Varric pulls her up a seat by the bar.  
  
"Evening, Flissa," he says. "My friend and I could use some of your finest. Put it on the Herald's tab."  
  
"I can pay, I think," Lucina says, fumbling for her pockets. She finds a half-wilted elfroot stalk and a crumpled note, and frowns. "Well. I _could_."  
  
"Purse must still be with your stuff," Varric guesses. "They've probably got that in a chest somewhere in the Chantry cellar. It's what they do when they arrest people."  
  
"In the spirit of the big hole no longer spitting out demons that are trying to kill us, I think this round is on me," Flissa decides, pulling out a hefty bottle and two mugs. "The usual, Varric? And… your friend?"  
  
Varric nods, and then turns to Lucina. "What'll it be, Blue?"  
  
"Um," Lucina guesses. "Anything. Whatever is good."  
  
"One glass of milk, coming up!" Flissa jokes. "Kidding, kidding. You're too old for milk! Maybe lemonade?"   
  
Lucina chuckles, idly running a hand through her messy hair. "I can hold my liquor, I promise," she says. "I'm no stranger to drinking."  
  
"Certainly not after downing half my battle jitters bottle three days ago," Varric cracks, clapping her on the shoulder and taking the mug Flissa hands him with a nod of thanks. It smells like apples and baking bread, and just the smell makes Lucina's core feel a little warmer, a little safer. "That oughta put some hair on your chest."  
  
"From you, I'll take that as a ringing endorsement," Lucina jokes, not oblivious to the golden carpet on Varric's chest. Varric lets out a clanging-bell laugh, jostling Lucina in what is supposed to be a friendly manner, but Varric is stocky and Lucina is not, so it very nearly knocks her off her perch.  
  
"See, I knew the Seeker wouldn't totally rub off on you," he says. "You've got your head on straight, if you can face down that thing and laugh about it later."  
  
"It must be the only thing about me that's straight," Lucina mutters, and Varric gives her a wicked grin.  
  
"Clever, clever," he says. "A kid after my own heart. Keep that sense of humor— it'll keep you sane when you get to be my age."  
  
"You can't be that old," Lucina frowns.  
  
 "You flatter me, Blue," Varric chuckles. "Hey, your drink's ready."  
  
Lucina takes her mug from Flissa and gives it a sniff— hard pear cider, she notes. With a hint of nutmeg and lemon. She smiles a little.  
  
Varric holds his mug out. "To the Inquisition," he toasts. "And to whatever divine bad luck made you its catalyst."  
  
"Hear, hear," Lucina says. Their mugs touch with a clunk. Lucina takes a deep swallow of her cider. It's hot and fizzy, foaming over the lip of the mug. Just like aunt Lissa used to have it.  
  
This savior of the world buisness can wait, she decides. Just for a minute, she can breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a picture of the child: http://pre05.deviantart.net/fcda/th/pre/i/2016/179/7/2/image_by_detectiverobomonkey-da81hod.jpg
> 
> also worth noting that cassandra and josephine are gonna smooch. its a side relationship but its def gonna happen bc pentilyet is hella


	6. Sobriety Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is mega long but after this is mostly gonna be me and not so much scripted dialogue, bc hinterlands. also bc the dragon age transcripts tumblr stops about there. that is a factor.
> 
> has anyone else given any thought to the inquisition scout and the apostate mage that templars caught canoodling in that one sidequest? i wonder about them sometimes. i know the mage died but hopefully her gf has a good support system, or at least someone to talk to about all this. can't be easy yknow
> 
> also shout out to @Blueheartsrock for being the one person to drop feedback on this fic. i know it's a just-for-fun thing but i really do appreciate feedback of any kind, so if anyone else wants to they can go ahead and tell me what they liked, hated, etc in the comment box. thanks everyone for reading, enjoy the chapter

In the end, it is a few days before Lucina reports back to the War Room in the Chantry, but that is allowed. She explores the grounds around Haven, does favors for a few of the townspeople, drinks at the Burning Nug in the evenings. She absorbs all she can from her surroundings and from books she finds, and learns quite a lot about the world she's in. She has found friends in the skittish elf Wen and Alf, the soldier from the burning wagon, and they don't seem to care one bit about this "Herald of Andraste" business that seems to have the Chantry in a tizzy. They are two of the few who seem to care what her full name is, rather than just calling her "ser Grace" or "Herald."  
  
Wen is sharp-witted, for how jumpy she still is around everything including her own shadow, and eager to help in whatever way possible. She came to Haven as a hand of one of the nobles, as part of a group of a few other elves, but they all died in the explosion and aftemath as she was doing chores, so now she tends to make herself useful doing other meaningless tasks. She likes it, she claims, having busy work to do. And there is no shortage of work to be done. Wen figures that many hands make light work, and she's busy so much, she wouldn't know what to do with herself if she has nothing to do. Lucina thinks she ought to pick up a craft; drawing, maybe, she has the hands for it.  
  
Alf is one of the Commander's soldiers. Alf is short for Alfalfa, Lucina learns, when she asks. And he groans that it was his brother's idea; his real name is James, but his brother Tomlin named him Alfalfa because it was all he'd eat as a child. Lucina couldn't imagine why; alfalfa barely counted as a vegetable at all and she'd always hated having to eat it (but she ate it anyway). But the name had stuck so thoroughly that even Commander Cullen called him Alf. Wen, naturally, teases him about it, sharing one of her rare grins that are so wide her face looks about to split. And he stares at her mournfully with the eyes of a big, sad cow, and says, _rub salt in me wound, why don'tch'ye?_  
  
They are wonderful company, once they pick up on her discomfort at the Herald title. She is immensely grateful for this. It's hard being a "chosen one," especially before the perks set in. It was hard in her world and it is hard in Thedas, though so far as she knows, her world has never had to deal with a demon-spitting hole in reality. Just the collapse of all infrastructure and undead monsters that rise from the ground.  
  
Mostly she listens to Alf and Wen talk, and thinks about her friends. She hopes Gerome can still fly Minerva, that Laurent has a place to read and write in his journal, that Severa has found a good pastry shop within her budget, that Kjelle is staying hydrated through her training. She hopes Inigo has had the chance to see flowers in bloom, that Cynthia has befriended a pegasus of her own, that Yarne has found somewhere safe to hide when he needs it. That Brady's healing talents are not wasted wherever he is. That Marcus has found somewhere he feels welcomed. That Marti has gotten that steak she wanted so. That Ke'tu has found someone worthy of his protection. That Saria and Morgan are both safe, and warm, and have found a space in which they fit, and that one day she will return home to them. She is not sure whether she sends this prayer to Naga or the Maker, but one of them will probably get it. Still, she'll drink to them both-- a pint for Naga, a pint for the Maker. Maybe a few more. It helps, for awhile.  
  
She regrets it immensely the next morning. She wakes an hour before noon, and finds a note from Wen with on her bedside table, under a saucer with a filled roll and a few herbs. There's a cup of cooled tea mixed with sweet fruit juice next to it, the kind that people often take with breakfast.  
  
_Heard you were drinking last night,_ it reads. _Drink all of the tea, and the roll is salt beef. The herbs are a few stems of elfroot wrapped in dandelion leaves, which won't help the hangover pass quicker, but it'll help your head not hurt so much. Alf says Seeker Pentegas Pentahg Pentaghast is getting a trifle annoyed with that you haven't yet seen to Inquisition business, what with you being an important member of it and all, and she's awful scary when she's angry. I suppose you can't avoid her forever, but  you might get away with waiting until you can walk without stumbling. Maybe take dinner with Alf and me tonight, instead of drinking? Wen._  
  
Lucina finds herself smiling as she sits up, despite her swimming head and churning stomach, and taking the cup. She's so sweet. Lucina is very glad she is friends with Wen.  
  
Despite her general state, Lucina finds she's very hungry, and the tea— ginger that soothes her stomach— is just what she needs to pique her appetite. She eats the salt beef roll in two bites, chews, swallows, and then examines the herbs. She pops the little package in her mouth and chews on it as she rakes her fingers through her hair and straightens her rumpled clothing.  
  
She stands, and though the world spins for a second, it rights itself. Maker— and whatever other gods exist, she's sure there has to be more than one— bless Wen and her thoughtfulness, because this was just what she needed. With that, it is time for her to change, meet with Cassandra, at long last, and pretend to be sober.  
  
It's harder than it seems. Cassandra is actually about to knock on Lucina's door when she opens it.  
  
"Goodness," she says. "Long night last night?"  
  
"You could say that," Lucina mumbles. She's certain she smells like whiskey. Perhaps she's sweated it onto the sheets. Changing her clothing likely helps, but even so. "Word gets around fast here."  
  
"Haven a small town," Cassandra shrugs. "Even though it would ordinarily be nothing special, despite its close proximity to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, it is at this moment our only choice for a base of operations. The Inquisition is in its infancy; perhaps one day we will have a more suitable spot for our headquarters, but for now, this is the Inquisition's home."  
  
"It doesn't seem very defensible," Lucina notes. "What if there's a fire?"  
  
Cassandra shrugs. "A hazard with many small towns. I have not resided here long enough to tell you exactly what the protocol is; you would have to ask the mayor."  
  
"Who's Haven's mayor?" Lucina finds herself asking.  
  
Cassandra pauses, head tilted. Her sharp eyebrows furrow. "I don't know," she finally says.  
  
Lucina files that piece of information away for future reference. Cassandra pushes open the doors of the Chantry in one strong motion.  
  
"Does it trouble you?" she asks. Lucina looks at her mark.  
  
"Not the thing itself," Lucina shrugs. "But I have to ask…"  
  
"What is it?" Cassandra nods.  
  
"If this thing is killing me," she ventures. "Couldn't we just cut off my arm and use the severed remnant to seal all these rifts?"  
  
 Cassandra balks. "I… do not think that wise, ser Grace," she says. "Who knows what severing your marked arm will do. The arm may decay like any flesh-and-blood limb. The mark may preserve it, but eventually consume it wholly. And in the meantime, where would we keep it? It is not as if apothecary Adan has converted milk cans for the purpose of preserving limbs and organs." She pauses. "That sounds more like something Minaeve would do."  
  
Lucina is at a loss for words. "Ah."  
  
"In any case," Cassandra says, holding open the door to the War Room, "I have some people you ought to meet."  
  
Cassandra gently pushes her into the war room. Lucina looks around. There's Leliana, the square blond man from the forward camp— Commander Cullen— and a pleasant-looking little woman in gold satin.  
  
Leliana is staring at her with sharp eyes and an unreadable expression. She reminds Lucina of a knife— cold and deadly, a self focused solely on precision. It's nothing personal, Lucina can hear her saying in a hypothetical scenario that involves Leliana stabbing a blade into her breastbone. Just business. She is tall and slender and dangerous— a blade in the sheath of a freckly, redheaded woman in her early thirties with purple leather-gloved hands planted firm on the table.  
  
Cullen is in the center, a gauntleted hand planted on the hilt of his sword. His shoulders are broad and assuming, as if he'd earned his position as an army commander and held it as if he were born for it. He looks like the kind of man that could weather an avalanche as though he were as tall and strong as a giant— Lucina knew a man like that, once, and it sends a pang of sadness through her core when she thinks about him. But as intimidating as Cullen looks, he's not as scary as Leliana, despite beingabout her age. His gaze is firm, but kind, like honeycombs. She thinks this is a person she can trust.  
  
And then the third person in the room, the woman in satin. She looks over at Lucina and smiles, a mix of professional competency and honest friendliness. Her hands are small and soft, her skin the same dark tone as Lucina's, but her features are different— more sculpted, more mature. She has grown into her nose and ears, unlike Lucina, in the perhaps seven or eight years' difference they have in age. The satin of her shirt reflecting the firelight makes her skin glow gold. She is short and soft and round, and Lucina is immediately put more at ease looking at her. (Lucina is no fool; she guesses that this third woman has several different ways of killing her, all more deadly than the last. It's always the kind-looking ones.)  
  
"Advisors," Cassandra explains. "You've met Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition's forces."  
  
"It was only briefly," Cullen says. "In the valley. It's good to see you're still alive, especially after what I'm told you've been up to."  
  
"Are there no secrets in this town?" Lucina mutters.  
  
"I'm not judging," Cullen gives her a smile of admittance. "After what you did, I don't blame you for imbibing a fair bit. So long as you don't pickle yourself too often."  
  
Lucina nods, then Cassandra moves on. "And this is lady Josephine Montilyet," she says, ears flushing the tiniest little bit. "Our ambassador and chief diplomat."  
  
Josephine nods. "I've heard much. It is a pleasure to meet you at last." She has such a lovely voice. Lucina, upon realizing the thought, mentally slaps herself on the wrist. _Don't you dare, Grace,_ she tells herself. _You're taken. You're engaged, for Naga's sake._ Not that Saria wouldn't be open to suggestion... No. She shakes that thought away.  
  
"And you know Sister Leliana," Cassandra nods to Leliana.  
  
Leliana gleams. It's not a smile, but it tells Lucina effectively that Leliana does not plan on having her killed today. "My position here involves a degree of—"  
  
"She is our spymaster," Cassandra cuts her off. Leliana sighs through her nose.  
  
"Yes," she admits. " _Tactfully_ put, Cassandra."  
  
Lucina looks around. "It's good to meet you all," she says, straightening her back. Why are they all looking at her like she's the leader? If anything, it should be Cassandra.  
  
"I mentioned that your mark needs power to close the Breach for good," Cassandra explains.  
  
"Which means," Leliana swoops in. "That we must approach the rebel mages for help."  
  
"And I _still_ disagree," Cullen argues. "The Templars could serve just as well."  
  
"We need power, Commander," Cassandra reminds him. "Enough power poured into the Breach—"  
  
"Might destroy us all!" Cullen scowled, hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. Not an indication that he was likely to draw it, but an indication he was preventing himself from doing so. "Templars could _suppress_ the Breach, weaken it so—"  
  
"Pure speculation." Leliana's response was curt.  
  
" _I_ was a Templar," Cullen insists. "I know what they're capable of."  
  
And this is when Josephine swoops in. "Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—" Everyone at once remembers Lucina is there when Josephine turns her eyes to her, gesturing with her quill. "—And _you_ , specifically."  
  
Lucina blinks. "Why? It isn't like I asked for this."  
  
"That does not seem to matter," Cassandra replies.  
  
"Some are calling you the Herald of Andraste," Josephine explains. "And that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have called it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you."  
  
Lucina knew who Andraste was from her skimming through the books in the Chantry library. Cassandra scowls. "Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt."  
  
"It limits our options," Josephine admits, scratching something down on her board. She has sheets of paper pinned into place. "Approaching the mages or the Templars for help is currently out of the question."  
  
"The Herald of Andraste?" Lucina repeats. "How am _I_ the Herald of Andraste?"  
  
"People saw what you did at the temple," Cassandra says. "How you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste."  
  
Leliana paces around the side of the table. "Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—"  
  
"Which we have not," Cassandra adds.  
  
"The point is," Leliana finishes. "Everyone is talking about you."  
  
Cullen gives a half-chuckle. "Quite the title, isn't it? How do you feel about that?"  
  
 Lucina fidgets with the seams of her new gloves. "I don't know," she says. "I don't feel particularly… _Heraldy_. Not of anything, particularly not Andraste. Maybe the herald of drunkards."  
  
"I'm sure the Chantry would agree," Cullen shrugs. "No offense to you, of course."  
  
"People are desperate for a sign of hope," Leliana explains. "For some, you're that sign."  
  
"And to others, a symbol of everything that's gone wrong," Josephine counters. She isn't wrong. Lucina herself has felt more like a symbol of everything going wrong than a hero destined to save the world. Though if she is a hero, what is to happen? It's worrying— the way it's supposed to work, the catastrophe is supposed to happen first, so people are relieved when the hero arrives. One could argue that the Breach is the catastrophe and Lucina is the hero that showed up right when the world needed it, but if Lucina knows anything about the fate she doesn't believe in, it's that she tends to show up right before trouble does. She doesn't believe in fate, still, but all of this reeks a little too strongly of ordination.  
  
"Will my being here hurt the Inquisition?" Lucina frowns. "If it's me they have a problem with, specifically, then I don't want others getting hurt on my behalf."  
  
"You being here is not an option," Cassandra insists. "I have a feeling they would have denounced us no matter what."  
  
"What would the Chantry hurt us with?" Cullen snorts. "They have only words at their disposal."  
  
"And yet," Josephine says. "They may bury us with them."  
  
That sends a shiver down Lucina's spine for a reason she cannot discern.  
  
"There is something you can do," Leliana brings up. "A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”  
  
"Will she listen to me?" Lucina asks, uncertain.  
  
"She asked for _you_ , specifically," Leliana assures her. "By name— your name, at least your surname, is becoming known along with your title. I understand she is a reasonable sort. You'll find her tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands, near Redcliffe."  
  
"Look for other opportunities to spread the Inquisition's influence while you're there," Cullen suggests.  
  
 "We need agents to extend our reach beyond the valley," Josephine adds. "I can think of none better suited to recruit them than you."  
  
"In the meantime," Cassandra says, setting a hand on Lucina's arm, "Let's think of other options. I won't leave this all to the Herald."  
  
Lucina smiles a little at that, feeling a weight lifted a miniscule amount off her chest. She reminds herself to thank Cassandra for that later. Perhaps after they start on their way— as Lucina understands it, they have a little time before departing for the Hinterlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wen and alf are my favorite characters, i'm sorry i just like them a lot. actually im not sorry they're my babies now and bc i like them they probably won't die.


	7. Friends, Flirting, and Bears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> josephine and cassandra are gay, and lucina needs a hug

Wen and Alf come to see her off, when the caravan is ready to go. The warm feeling in Lucina's gut is unfamiliar for a second, before she remembers how much she liked having friends by her side.  
  
"I've never been to the Hinterlands," Wen remarks. "I've heard it's nice there."  
  
"It's not that great," Alf shrugs. "Lots of trees and rams. And bears."  
  
Wen pales. "Bears?"  
  
"Huge bears," Alf nods. "When I was a boy, I saw me brother Dickon go after one with a pitchfork an' it was bigger'n our house! I never saw 'im again."  
  
Wen, whose eyes had been widening in fear until that last bit, gave him a look. "That's a lie," she says. "You never had a brother named Dickon."  
  
"Did so," Alf insists. "Between Ruddard and Mick. He wasn't all that smart."  
  
"No, you only have five brothers," Wen argues. "You told me so. And I met Eddy last week and he said the same thing, he did."  
  
"If I had that many brothers, I wouldn't be able to keep them all straight, either," Lucina admits. "But I don't think that's true, either. Bears just don't come that big."  
  
"But, if they did," Wen ventures. "You _promise_ me you won't try to fight them? You'll turn yourself around and march right back to camp, cross your heart?"  
  
"Cross my heart," Lucina promises. "It's sweet of you to worry, Wen, but I'll be back in Haven safe and sound in two months' time."  
  
"I'm only sayin' so be-because," Wen stumbles over her words, folding her arms, and Lucina wonders why for a minute. "Because you _always_ try to fight things bigger than you. Like that time you ran back to town with an angry druffalo on your heels the other day 'cause you wanted to see if you could beat it!"  
  
She has a point. In Lucina's defense, she's never seen a druffalo before, since they apparently don't exist outside of Thedas, and it had honestly seemed like a good idea at the time. And it doesn't seem fair that everyone says _"oh, your twenties are full of bad decisions, it's what you're supposed to do,"_ and then suddenly she's impulsive and reckless for attacking a druffalo. Granted, the same people tend to say childhood is a lighthearted time, and the latter part of Lucina's certainly wasn't. Not the point.  
  
"Lucky Wen came in with those fireballs," Alf volunteers. "Dunno what woulda happened otherwise."  
  
Wen blanches. "I don't— shoot— _fireballs_ ," she says tersely, pointedly eyeing the Templars standing just out of earshot. Lucina must agree, since they'd been more like embers, but she gets the message. "Only _mages_ shoot fireballs, and _I'm_ no mage, right, _Alfalfa?"_  
  
Alf follows her gaze, then straightens. "Oh, right, of course," he agrees. "My mistake. Not fireballs. I reckon just a… trick of the light, s'what it was. Lucky fer Lucina, though, either way."  
  
Lucina clears her throat. "Anyway," she says. "I hope neither of you will get into trouble while I'm gone."  
  
"Of course not!" Alf says proudly, sticking out his chest. "I bet me bow on it."  
  
"I'll hold you to that, Alf," Lucina teases. She looks over to Cassandra, presumably sorting out final details with Ambassador Montilyet, or otherwise engaged in conversation. "It looks like we're going to leave soon. I'll bring something back for both of you!"  
  
Lucina is squished in a short hug from them both. It's full of elbows and Alf's breath smells like hay, but Lucina doesn't want to let go. It's good, she thinks, it's very good to have friends. But the moment must end, and Lucina approaches Cassandra. She stands there quietly, hands behind her back, while Cassandra and Josephine talk.  
  
"I've looked over Scout Harding's reports," Josephine is saying, leafing through a few papers on her writing-board, "As well as taken a look at what Corporal Vale has requested. As I understand it, the refugees at the Crossroads could use the help of Inquisition agents in person— perhaps the people there have more ideas? No word on the horsemaster, however; perhaps Harding has recieved more information since the writing of the report."  
  
"I will see to this," Cassandra nods. "What of Redcliffe?"  
  
"Problems," Josephine sums up. "They have closed the city due to the Mage-Templar fighting worsening. I fear what this may mean for our agents, if it has gotten that bad."  
  
"Ser Grace and I will do what we can to stem the fighting and make passage safer," Cassandra promises.  
  
"Do not put yourself in unnecessary danger, Seeker Pentaghast," Josephine says. She arches a perfectly-done eyebrow at Cassandra, whose eyes are at least fifteen inches up to Josephine's, and her nimble fingers pause in their notating, but only pause. Do her hands ever cease movement? It seems she always has a note to make, or a page to turn, or a stack to shuffle through.

"Do not worry, Ambassador," Cassandra replies. "I would not give you cause to fret without need."  
  
"Of course, I trust you," Josephine nods once. "But these things are not always within our control. Do promise me you'll be careful— and, for the love of Andraste, if you see bears, _turn_ _around_. I have been informed that you've tried to fight them before, and _nearly_ gotten mauled."  
  
At that, Cassandra flushes, and abruptly looks away. "It seemed like a good idea," she mumbles. Then she sighs. "Nonetheless, I do promise I will try my best not to cause you undue stress. You are a vital part of the Inquisition, after all. It would not do for you to be preoccupied with such mental burdens."  
  
"I would not call it so," Josephine says. "You could never be a burden, lady Cassandra." She licks her lips, just a bit, and looks at her board.  
  
"Lady Montilyet—" Cassandra tries to say. She cuts herself off. "I understand. We will all return in two months' time, with good news. This, I promise you."  
  
"Thank you," Josephine says, giving Cassandra a closed-mouth smile. "That is reassuring to hear… more so than you may think."  
  
At this, Cassandra seems reassured. "Good," she says, for lack of anything else to say. Then she nods, and someone else calls Josephine over to look at something else— something important, likely. Cassandra sighs, and Lucina sees her staring. Her gaze is uncharacteristically soft and admiring.  
  
Lucina clears her throat. "Is everything ready?" she asks.  
  
Cassandra visibly jumps, and catches herself when she sees it's only Lucina. She smooths down her braid, and nods. "Yes, it is. I was just talking with the Ambassador about… important… directives for when we reach the camp on the Outskirts."  
  
"I could tell," Lucina says. "And, ah… excuse me, but were… was that flirting I saw, just now?"  
  
"Of course not!" Cassandra says hotly, flushing a vibrant shade of red. "Lady Montilyet is a professional, and it would do her a disservice to be… to be _flirting_ with her when we both have important business to attend to."  
  
Lucina raises an eyebrow. "I'm not an expert, by any means, Seeker Cassandra," she says. "But that seemed a lot like flirting."  
  
"You were mistaken," Cassandra says stiffly. "Come. It is a long journey to the Hinterlands."  
  
She marches herself towards where the wagons are set to depart. Lucina follows. It's not like there's anything she can do to press the matter further.


End file.
